1. Re-edit all manuscripts!
This time, let us tell our girls
stories about fairytales, policies and politics.
Let her choose to be a Sita, a Mary, a Cinderella,
but do remind her, she comes from the same skin as Kali,
Nikhumbila and Durga too.
This time, tell her to shelter choices selfishly,
decapitate armed fears on streets,
hoard portable daggers along lipsticks in backpacks,
swap saplings of poison for punches,
grow big tongues, outspoke,
pin them out on foreheads with no apologies.
Warn her not about borders of visible bra strips;
Instead, broadcast about anonymous ghosts,
seasonal termites, predator skulls behind
oleander masks, rancid virtues.
As before, do not coronate her with classist narratives.
Tell her over and over
to give up on insecurities instead of her identity.
Gift her fertile wisdom of all great gods
so, if she ever loses everything,
she is her shrine; she can always come back to.
Not growing her womb, finding her tribe,
marching against threats,
cursing lovers, messy tampons on sheets,
a beer in hand, swinging fiddles on dance floors,
hosting sisterhood,
occupied uterus, revolting Pavlovian sacrifices,
spinning muslin sundresses
in work boots is all womanhood.
Read gospels about her forebearers,
the grandmothers, the sisters, the mothers,
how far their clan reigned each time
against fortified maneuvers, this
world has made them go through.
Remind her when hinged
midway with an unwelcomed lecher,
She is a werewolf,
Her fingers can cut hazard into halves,
Hunt and hang sternums in queues altogether through.
This time,
Let no earthly articles inhabit her spine.
Nor we metamorphose into gluttons
to devour her pride.
So, we perhaps not gather for another candlelight procession
On footmarks of her annihilation
Ever and again!
stories about fairytales, policies and politics.
Let her choose to be a Sita, a Mary, a Cinderella,
but do remind her, she comes from the same skin as Kali,
Nikhumbila and Durga too.
This time, tell her to shelter choices selfishly,
decapitate armed fears on streets,
hoard portable daggers along lipsticks in backpacks,
swap saplings of poison for punches,
grow big tongues, outspoke,
pin them out on foreheads with no apologies.
Warn her not about borders of visible bra strips;
Instead, broadcast about anonymous ghosts,
seasonal termites, predator skulls behind
oleander masks, rancid virtues.
As before, do not coronate her with classist narratives.
Tell her over and over
to give up on insecurities instead of her identity.
Gift her fertile wisdom of all great gods
so, if she ever loses everything,
she is her shrine; she can always come back to.
Not growing her womb, finding her tribe,
marching against threats,
cursing lovers, messy tampons on sheets,
a beer in hand, swinging fiddles on dance floors,
hosting sisterhood,
occupied uterus, revolting Pavlovian sacrifices,
spinning muslin sundresses
in work boots is all womanhood.
Read gospels about her forebearers,
the grandmothers, the sisters, the mothers,
how far their clan reigned each time
against fortified maneuvers, this
world has made them go through.
Remind her when hinged
midway with an unwelcomed lecher,
She is a werewolf,
Her fingers can cut hazard into halves,
Hunt and hang sternums in queues altogether through.
This time,
Let no earthly articles inhabit her spine.
Nor we metamorphose into gluttons
to devour her pride.
So, we perhaps not gather for another candlelight procession
On footmarks of her annihilation
Ever and again!